Against My Will

Part (1)

As a young girl emerging just out of child hood I had little knowledge of what female goes through when approaching womanhood. I was an abandoned child whose cries were often left unheard. I left home in search of peace; I wanted to be free, free of the exploitation, free of the mistreatment. Just to be free.

I lived in the home of abusive alcoholics. Both my parents mistreated me. My father often made me his play toy whenever my Mother was out. I begged her to let me go, she refused, refused to hear my part. She rebutted my complaints. I was punished for ‘telling lies’ on my father.

He often wore a vest that was tarnished, his stomach hung below his belt with its the hair neatly lined. His face bore cuts, his teeth were decayed and his mouth had the strong stench of rum. The smell of cigars and vodka surrounded the atmosphere whenever he entered the room.

“Shut up, you spoiled brat,” My Father yelled.
His voice echoed through the entire house, I sat powerless cradling my legs against my chest with the tears rushing swiftly down my bruised cheeks. He looked at me with an evil smile as he pulled his zipper up and gives off a satisfying sigh.
“Now that wasn’t bad wasn’t it,” my father said.
My eyes were closed tightly together as I whispered the daily prayer. Suddenly the door opened I peered from between my father’s legs it was my mother.

“Stop it, Stop it,” she cried.
He turned around and yelled at her. She held onto him tightly begging him to leave me alone. The force within him pushed her away, she dropped to the floor in helpless tears as she said in disbelief
“I can’t believe you did that to our child.”
My father watched my mother without saying a word then he calmly walked out of the room giving off a hearty laugh as though he had done something good.
“Mama,” I cried. “Are you ok?”
She turned away, trying to avoid me.
“Look what you made your father do, he hates me now.”
I couldn’t believe it, she hated me for his mistakes, and his act of abuse has made me the main target of my mother’s abuse.
“You damn slut, you had to have your own way didn’t you,” she screamed.
She grabbed me by the hair and threw me unto the bed, I became afraid. She was even angrier than before. The leather was thick I could have felt its burning sting as it touched my buttocks. The more I screamed the harder she’d hit me.

That night had been a dreadful experience, I stayed up all night staring at my door in horror knowing that my father might want to play again. I heard noises coming from the walls, it had been my parents arguing, but what were they arguing for? I crawled out of my room trying to hold back my sniffles so that they won’t hear me.

“Why?” my mother asked.
“She deserved it my father yelled, she’s growing too fast so I had to show her a few things,” he said as he sat at the table with his pants unzipped while a bottle of vodka swung in his hands.
“She had it coming,” he said laughing.

“She knew,” I said to myself. She knew all about it but blamed me for it.
She accepted my father’s fault and even though she was angry, she could not leave him. She was afraid of how we might end up without him.

That night I slept in my closet. Our cat Samba made him self warm as he cuddled beneath my feet. I kept peeping through the holes in the closet door in horror waiting on my father’s return.

I woke up to the glowing light peering through the tiny holes in my door. The place was silent. I was afraid to come out of the closet but my hunger was too much to bear. I made it out to the hallway with my legs depending on each other. I became cold as I walked passed my parent’s bedroom. There were clothes everywhere it had been ransacked. The living room was clear, they were nowhere in the house.

I ran faintly to the kitchen counter longing to have a taste of something. I became weaker and weaker as I searched. There was nothing to eat, I fell to the floor in tears with my hands ripping against the rough floor. I opened my eyes when I saw a piece of eaten bread on the floor. Hungrily I ate it not caring that it was Samba’s remains from his dinner last night.

Whenever my father came home angry I was punished for it. I hated him more than ever and I always forgave my mother but I was still angry with her.

I was determined to leave. I had to get out. That night I waited up until I heard my father’s snore and the gritting of my mother’s teeth, by then I knew they’d be asleep. I reached for my backpack that had bore stitches. A picture of my mother stood on my bed stand, I grabbed it along with a few pennies I was saving for my own baby doll.

I peered through the keyhole of my parent’s room. They were cuddled together. There was no more hatred for him from her but all was for me. I vowed to myself that I would never step back into that house again. I opened the door and stood at its entrance as I looked back as if to say goodbye.

Part (2)

It was never a more beautiful day for sadness. I walked the lonely streets with thoughts of happiness. As I passed the bakery the smell of fresh baked bread aroused the starving taste buds at the tip of my tongue. The trees seemed greener than before, the chirping of the birds sounded even more beautiful. When I passed the playground, the children were all enjoying themselves with their parents, how I longed for that moment. I was out on my own. I had to strive for a living. I spent endless nights sleeping behind dumpsters and eating spoilt food. The only clothes I wore were torn and blemished. My hair was clammy and its odor was of garbage.

A full meal I never had, scrapings I was forced to eat. My journey to my hideout at nights was fearful, dark alleys and abandoned streets. The sound of dogs barking and cats growling made me afraid.

After a few months had passed I was still trying to make use of what little I had. I was offered a job to clean up at a diner. I would often wash dishes and clean the floors for a few pennies. I often missed my mother but the thoughts kept haunting me. I was trapped in a world of hatred. I soon became more depressed and withdrew myself from the world.

As I walked down an endless path with my thoughts wandering I started to cry as I reached into my purse and looked at my mother’s picture. The pain ran freely into my heart, ripping what was left from what I had tried mend.

One night on my way home I heard an unusual sound behind me. I turned around and yelled
“Who’s there?”
There was no reply. I started walking faster, and then I heard footsteps behind me. A male voice called out to me then I felt the palm of his hands grabbed me while his accomplices jumped out of the nearby dumpsters. I stared at him with the tears settling in my eyes and my face turning flush red.
“I’m not afraid of you,” I screamed.
“But you will be,” he replied.

He threw me to the ground, while they looked on in patience waiting for their turn. I felt what I once felt when my father held onto me. I tried screaming but I just couldn’t. I gazed into his eyes and asked myself,
“How can man be so cruel?”
The faster he moved the more I felt pain, I was ripping away inside. It was too much and there were more of them. I bit my lips in anguish. He looked guilty but wasn’t going to stop the hurting he was doing to me. I was annoyed with myself. I just lay there as my body was being used against my will.

I have never hated my parents less. I endured a painful childhood, now my womanhood was the same. It was an endless road of abuse. I felt soiled. I was unable to move. I lay helpless as they ran away making hooting noises because they had just finished a hearty meal. I pretended to be dead until I saw their shadow’s disappear into the moonlight of the night.

Finally I got the strength to move, I ran as fast as I could, my destination seemed farther. I wasn’t afraid anymore. I ran freely not caring about what was behind me. I made it home safely, cleaned myself and spent the rest of my night being remorseful.

I spent several days locked in my room. My landlord often kept banging on my door for her rent but I refused to answer I only stared the door hoping that she’d go away. From my room I heard person’s voices as they talked blatantly about me; I peered through a hole I had made on the door. Children often threw eggs at the door and blurted out
“Used rag.”
As night came I packed my things silently, and began another journey to a place I had not known. The alleyways seemed the same but I wasn’t afraid anymore. I expected the normal sounds; I was just angry and confused. I was now broken again with lots unanswered questions.

I made it to an isolated shack that seemed well enough for the night. I unpacked and lit a few candles I had stolen from the Motel. I sat around the old fireplace as though I was crazy; I kept my eyes closed and rocked back and forth as I began to plan my felony. I swore that I would make him pay for hurting me like this. I had had enough and I was willing to put an end to it all.

Part (3)

Most of the nights and days caught me planning intensely, my crime. Time took its time, the clock’s tick moved rapidly. The pounding of my heart increased. I left home in search of a weapon; I was focused on one thing only. Revenge. The streets were now my home. I made checks with friends of higher status. Soon enough I was given what I wanted. A gun.

I drove nervously around the block circling a specific house then I decided to park behind an old brown wagon that looked familiar. I waited until I saw the porch lights went out then I knew it was time for me to make a move. I got out of my car like an assassin on duty. As I walked towards the patio my skin grew, and my eyes became watery. I stood at the door contemplating whether I should knock and make my move or just break and enter. I placed my hands on the knob and without anticipation I turned it. Through the tiny hole on the door, our cat ‘Samba’ jumped out at the squeak of the rodents.
“My god,” I thought to myself.
I jumped at the thought that maybe it was my father who had turned the lock before I did.
“Stop scaring yourself,” I whispered.
The rage came over me I made it into the house but I stood still at the doorway. All my fears were again haunting me. I saw myself running from my father once more, I felt my mother’s pain and deceit.

The room stood silent. It was the same as I left it, creaking floors and unpainted walls that left a stain after heavy rainfalls. I heard my father’s snort. I became angrier. I walked hurriedly towards my parent’s room only to be confronted by my father’s angry eyes.
“What in bloody name are you doing here,” he yelled not recognizing his daughter.
I shudder at his voice now realizing that I had a gun and was about to murder my father. I was petrified.
My mother heard the noises and ran towards the door only to face her worst nightmare.
“My baby,” she cried as she dropped to her knees in disbelief.
My father’s side cheeks suddenly turned up into a smile that was welcoming. I maintained my position with the look of deception written on my face and I grew furious. Slowly I raised the pistol and pointed it to my father trying to hold back my tears and all the pain I felt.


My mother now realizing what was happening got up and stood in front of my father.
“No,” she yelled.
“I don’t mind shooting you both,” I replied with a grin.
“You both make me sick.”
My father moved from behind my mother with his hands held out begging me to put the gun down.
“Move any further and I’ll shoot,” I yelled.
My words fell upon a deaf ear, he kept moving towards me. I became afraid I knew if he got his way he would hurt me once more. I closed my eyes and began to recite my prayers once more then suddenly everything went black.

I lay as still I could without moving I tried opening my eyes but it was closed. I heard noises around me but I was too confused soon enough I fell deeply into my sleep.

I woke up by the sound of a beeping instrument. I was in the hospital.
“What happened?” I asked myself.
I looked around and saw two neatly dressed men. They stood at the entrance of my room and they had guns. They were policemen. I tried to get up but I was strapped to my bed and any hard movements I made and alarm would go off.

The men came rushing into my room with their guns pointed towards me. The nurses then rushed to my bedside and injected my hands. I felt dizzy. I dropped back to my fluffed pillow and fell back into a deep sleep.

Part (4)

After a few weeks I was out of the hospital but I was now in confinement. I sat on the floors waiting to hear the officer called my name. I wasn’t angry at all, I got what I wanted and now it was all over there was no more pain. I must now fight for my rights.

It was against my will to be raped at an early age. It was against my will, to be raped in my womanhood. Against my will, to be my father’s murder.

“Has the jury reached the verdict?” The judge asked.
“Yes we have your honor, we the jury find the defendant . . . . .
The statement repeated its self in my head as I sat clueless in the courtroom.
“Guilty of murder in the first degree.”

I was silent and relieved; I said nothing on my behalf. As I left the courtroom with chains weighing down my feet and hands. I once more felt like the child I was before I looked back and waved to my mother as if to say goodbye once more.